Some Things Are Meant to Be
by 1917farmgirl
Summary: For Merlin, having the world fall apart around him was nothing new, but having someone there to help him pick up the pieces afterwards unfortunately was. Until it happened twice, with two very special people who appeared in his life when he most needed saving. Modern AU, friendship fic. Christmas story.
1. It's Always Darkest

**Some Things are Meant to Be**

 **1\. It's Always Darkest…**

His mother died when he was eight. Laid down to sleep and never woke up. He found her when he crept in, wondering why she hadn't roused him for school.

"Wore out, the poor thing," the people who eventually came and took her away said, thinking he couldn't hear. "From the stress of three jobs and a kid. And only twenty-eight. What a shame…"

He had no father – never had – so they sent him off with his whole life dumped carelessly in a ratty, brown bag and a stuffed dragon clutched tightly in his arms, to a big place full of many other sad children.

"Don't worry," they assured him. "You're young, yet. Someone will come to love you."

Only they didn't.

Because he was different.

He wasn't quiet and polite – he was curious. His ears stuck out and his hair wouldn't lay flat and his imagination took him to places only he could see.

His mind worked too fast.

"Too many questions!" they complained. "Can't you just shush like a good boy?"

But he couldn't. He really couldn't.

He talked too quick and too much, and he couldn't sit still. He liked to jump and run and dig in the dirt. He wanted to know why things worked, not just that they did. He was elbows and knees and dishes broken on accident and house plants tipped over and things ripped and torn and ruined and shattered.

Some tried to train it out of him.

Some tried to beat it.

And he just couldn't comprehend why he had to change – why he could no longer be Merlin.

His tenth year found him back where he'd started, family number six driving away as he was left clutching his bag and his dilapidated dragon in the halls of that old building, the one that practically oozed sorrow and crushed dreams, words they thought he didn't understand but that he knew perfectly well (thank you very much) swirling around him.

 _Obstinate._

 _Disobedient._

 _Out of control._

 _A terror._

 _Un-adoptable._

He heard them all, and his bright, knowing ten-year-old brain interpreted what they really meant.

 _Ungrateful._

 _Unwanted._

 _Un-lovable._

 _A monster…_

00000

He met the old man in the park on a chilly, barely-spring day. He was supposed to go straight back after school, but his feet always seemed to detour as if they had minds of their own. How could he explain that the park with its trees and grass, even if they were scraggly and trampled (rather like himself, actually) seemed to pour a little bit of life back into his wounded heart, while the venerable, old building he called home seemed to just suck it away?

The ducklings had hatched and he was watching them – see, he could be quiet, when it was important and needed! – watching their mama lead them here and there and trying to quell the burst of envy he felt knowing they had a mother and he did not.

"That's a Northern Pintail," a voice said from beside him. He looked up to see the old man on the bench, funny, out-of-date hat perched on wiry-grey hair and a book clutched close to his body under one tweed-covered arm.

"I know," Merlin answered honestly, crossing his arms.

"You do?" the man said, a smile that seemed rusty but still warm filling his face. "Tell me, my boy, what else do you know?"

So he did.

He told him of ducks and frogs and pond scum. He spoke of rocks that had crystals inside and tornados bigger than a whole city and spaceships that might make it to Mars. All the wonderful thoughts that had been bouncing around inside his brain for years but no one had ever asked about just spilled out, like a flood that couldn't be stopped.

And the old man listened, and nodded, and asked questions in all the right places, and then told him things back.

He expounded on animals and plants, ancient cities long lost and battles won. He brought books – wonderful, old, musty-smelling books with brittle pages and amazing pictures, or shiny new ones with big words Merlin liked to store carefully away for his tongue.

One day turned into two and then a whole month flew by.

"Where do you live?" the old man – his new friend Gaius – had asked as they met on their bench after school.

"Nowhere," he mumbled.

"Do your parents know we speak? I'd like to meet them…"

Merlin stood. "I have to go," he said. He politely handed back the book they'd been reading (trains were amazing!) and then fled.

00000

His feet stopped taking him to the park after that. Or rather, they still tried, but his brain refused to let them. If he went back, Gaius would ask questions again, make him answer. And then his newest – and really only – friend would find out the truth: that he was unwanted and rejected – damaged.

But two weeks later, after he dragged himself back from school to the soul-sucking building, Gaius was there. And the words started to swirl around him once more, only different this time.

 _Inquiring after you._

 _Foster option._

 _Last chance._

 _Possible adoption._

 _Real home._

They – the grown-ups in charge, the ones who ran Merlin's life now – were hesitant.

Merlin was young, Gaius was old. Merlin was fast, Gaius was slow.

Gaius was all alone.

"So am I," Merlin said into the chaos of adults and swirling words, and for just a moment everything paused, then someone took him out of the room.

It seemed hours before Gaius eased himself into the hard, metal chair beside the one Merlin sat slumped in, hope and the pain of hoping fighting a war inside his stomach that made him want to vomit.

"Merlin, would you like to come live with me?" the old man asked gently.

He held his breath as the world stopped, then let it out as it smashed back to life around him, eons seeming to pass in a single second, but he was still there, and Gaius was still waiting, so it must not have been a dream.

"I break things," he blurted, feeling the need to give full disclosure.

"So do I," answered Gaius and took his dirty hand that still had jam on it from lunch into his old, wrinkled one and together they stood to go collect Merlin's things.

00000

Gaius's house was small and old, surrounded by gardens of flowers and herbs and filled to the brim with books and paintings and knick-knacks and antiques. It was an odd place, with twists and turns, hidden cupboards and precarious stacks of knowledge.

Merlin loved it.

And when he inevitably raced too fast through the halls and tripped and fell – piles crashing and things breaking – Gaius simply told him to clean it up and go find the glue again.

Gaius told him other things as well, about Before – when he was married to a beautiful, young lady named Alice and they were going to start a life together, before the car crash that took her away just six months into their plans. Told him about the fifty years since when he'd been alone, trying to fill the void with his books and his history lectures and his plants.

So Merlin told Gaius about his Before – when it was just his mother and him, and she'd laughed and danced him about their tiny kitchen even though she was tired and her feet hurt. When she'd let him talk and ask questions, proud that he wanted to know.

Their Befores settled nicely in together – creating peace and beautiful memories – and finally allowing both to begin dreaming of possible Afters.

And he soon realized he loved more than the just the house and the knowledge and the gardens – he loved the old man – Gaius – with all the power of his little boy heart.

00000

Merlin grew – tall and stick-like, with arms and legs and ears that still didn't quite fit. He went to school, absorbing all the knowledge that he could, but he never really blended in.

Gaius said it was because while he might appear to be a young boy, he was really an old soul. It's why they got along so well – because Gaius was an old man with young eyes that twinkled and a laugh he'd rediscovered.

They had their books and their flowers and each other – they were happy.

00000

He was seventeen when his world moved out from under him yet again. This time it didn't fall all at once in a mighty crash but trickled agonizingly away, set off by yet another swirl of words.

 _Brain tumor._

 _Malignant._

 _Inoperable._

 _Terminal._

And suddenly he wished he'd never crammed all those big words into his brain, so he could pretend not to understand every single one that was stabbing into his heart like daggers.

"Oh, my boy," Gaius had said, patting his hand as his still-young eyes shone with unshed tears. "We'll muddle through. Somehow, we will."

For a while they did. The looming fear stayed in the distance, safely ignored as things seemed to return to normal. Merlin finished his junior year of high school, the tomatoes were starting to blossom, and then Gaius began to forget – words, days of the week, where he put his shoes… When he forgot the names of the ducks in the park they still visited, Merlin shut himself in his room wrapped around a barely recognizable stuffed dragon and just cried.

00000

He didn't go back to school that August. They argued, but Merlin was stubborn and determined. He took the bus to the nearest GED testing center and sat the exam the very next day, passing with ease (maybe those words in his head were good for something after all,) then tacked the certificate on the fridge and gave it no more thought. He had other priorities now.

When Gaius forgot to brush his teeth, Merlin reminded him.

When Gaius forgot how to tie his shoes, Merlin did it for him.

When Gaius forgot his favorite stories, Merlin read them to him again, as often as he wanted.

And Merlin cooked and cleaned and readied the garden for winter. He arranged doctor's appointments and sorted medication and made sure Gaius bathed.

One day – when Gaius was remembering better than most – the old man had him dig out a dusty briefcase full of papers and they both spent many hours signing them. New words battered at Merlin's aching heart.

 _Power of Attorney._

 _Inheritance._

 _Internment._

00000

The seizure came the first day of October and when it was over they were both trembling and terrified on the floor, Merlin clutching the frail, old body gently to his chest, the sound of ambulance sirens approaching in the distance.

"He isn't strong enough to go back home," the doctors told him, hours later as he sat beside a hospital bed. "There's a nice room in Long-Term Care. Government insurance will cover a bit, but…"

Merlin nodded that he understood, and then signed the papers anyway.

00000

He sold the house. He might have been just a boy with ears that stuck out and limbs his body still hadn't quite figured out what to do with, but he used big words and knew what he wanted; the adults took him seriously now. Still, the house was very old and very small – it didn't sell for much.

He rented a storage unit and packed Gaius's beloved treasures and books into it, then walked one last time through each room, opened each cupboard door, gazed out the back window at each sleeping rose and bush… At last, he shouldered a faded, brown bag filled with a few clothes, some important papers and photographs, and a falling-apart dragon and locked the door.

Someone else would love this home now.

The money was barely enough – for the moment – and Gaius settled in. Merlin spent every daylight hour at his side, talking and caring and loving him, heart breaking as he watched him lose a little more each day. His nights were spent wandering, crashing on their bench in the park when it was warm enough and on a cot in a shelter when it wasn't.

He turned eighteen in November but Gaius didn't remember and no one else knew. He splurged on a packet of Twinkies from the vending machine and shared them with his old friend anyway.

Gaius forgot his name – but he still called him "my boy" and patted his hand, so Merlin tried to be contented with that.

Doctors visited, tests were run, medicine prescribed to help ease his pain. "He needs this," someone would say, or "this might make him more comfortable," another would mention, and Merlin would just nod and agree – he was determined to do anything and everything for this kind old man.

And then he would unlock the storage unit, pick out a few more pieces of well-loved furniture, and visit the antique store once more to haggle prices.

00000

Gaius lost his sight in mid-December. The doctors sat Merlin down.

"He won't make it through the month," they said. "Are things in order?"

"There's a plot, next to his wife," Merlin mumbled, numb and trying to catch his breath, even though he'd known this was coming for so long now.

"There needs to be more than that," they said gently.

And he found himself at the mortuary next door, discussing options.

The storage unit was mostly empty by then, only the paintings and the piles of books remaining. He spent the night sorting through the tomes – saying goodbye to dear friends – and when the morning dawned he had two groups. He slid the small, wooden crate holding the most precious and most loved – the ones he could not bear to part with – to the back corner, and then he started his many treks to the antique shop for the last time, carrying the rest.

Gaius's paintings bought a plain but solid casket and pre-paid the mortuary fees for when the time came – probably more money than they were worth but even Merlin could no longer hide the red-rimmed eyes or world-weary slouch and the antique-store owner wasn't made of stone. And the books – the sum total of years of knowledge distilled down to monetary value – purchased a simple headstone, all that would be left to mark a man's life. _Beloved husband and father_ it would read, along with Gaius's name and dates, to be set in the spring when the snow melted.

There would be no funeral. All of Gaius's friends and fellow professors had already passed – the only one left to remember was Merlin.

00000

It's snowing the morning of Christmas Eve as he sits holding the frail hand of his dying…father – he knows in his heart that this day is the last.

"Merlin," the old man suddenly whispers, his blind eyes opening for a moment as if searching.

The boy's breath hitches – it has been weeks since Gaius remembered his name.

"I'm right here, Gaius," he sooths, gently squeezing the hand and desperately trying to keep the tears from sounding in his voice.

"Oh, my boy, my dear boy," Gaius says with a tiny smile, and Merlin leans forward to hear the almost silent words, to savor the Christmas miracle of a last instance of clarity. "I never expected such a blessing so late in life. You will be good, won't you?"

"I promise," Merlin sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"I know."

"Thank you," he blurts. "You saved my life. I…I love you."

Gaius smiles again – tiny and gentle, as if seeing things in his darkness that Merlin can't. "You are the dearest love of an old man's heart, my boy. And no, you saved mine."

They do not speak again. Gaius's eyes slip closed and Merlin sits for hours, holding his hand and watching the gradually slowing rise and fall of his chest.

It takes him a little while to notice when he's gone, and then he still doesn't move, frozen on this edge of change and horrendous loss.

00000

They take Gaius away.

Merlin signs all the papers, takes care of all the necessities, in a fog and on autopilot. The room is cleared, Gaius's few belongings packed into a plastic bag with the words _My Name Is __ printed on the front and handed to him, and he's given a slip of paper with a time for the burial – ten in the morning two days after Christmas.

And then he's left standing there in the hall – his brown bag on his shoulder, plastic bag clutched in one fist and a mortuary brochure in the other – with nowhere to go on Christmas Eve but a storage shed that expires in three days and nothing but twelve dollars and sixty-seven cents in his pocket.

His feet take him to the front lounge – though he can't really remember the walk – but his body simply won't or can't go any further. He sinks on a chair, staring out the window at the snow that continues to fall, like the tiny, silent tears that track down his face, frozen and so very alone.

People bustle past him as they hurry into the hospital to visit family and friends, spreading Christmas cheer, or rush to get home and share the evening with their loved ones. No one sees the young man who is silently crumbling apart – except one.

Suddenly, someone – a stranger – is crouching before him, intruding into his space, though Merlin is so lost and so numb he doesn't even react. And then, with a careful hand on his thin shoulder a voice asks, "Hey kid, you okay?"

It's a rope, thrown to one who's drowning, and – though he can't ever explain why – Merlin reaches out and takes it.

 **Author's Note:**

This fic is dedicated and given as a gift to my dear friend Missy! Thank you for everything! The last six months have been so much brighter for knowing you!


	2. Before Dawn

**2\. …Before Dawn**

Arthur never knows quite why he bothers to stop and talk to the kid, ask if he's okay. (And it's really a stupid question, anyway. They're in a hospital – if someone is crying, they probably have good reason.)

Maybe it's because his life is actually going nicely for once – another semester of university is under his belt and he only has one more to go before he'll be the proud owner of a business degree… He's dating Gwen, and though nothing is serious yet, she hasn't pushed him away so he's hopeful… He called his father earlier that day and things were fairly civil on the phone – a vast improvement over last Christmas Eve… His sister is married to his best friend, and in between trying to kill each other Morgana and Gwaine are madly in love, and now she has just given birth to his very first nephew, their own little Christmas miracle.

So yeah, he's doing well.

But that boy obviously isn't.

Therefore – surprising himself to the core – he stops, steps over, places a hand on a bony, shaking shoulder, and asks his idiotic question.

He cringes the moment it comes out of his mouth, half expecting the kid to rip into him about being insensitive, but he doesn't even respond. He only reacts to his touch, the teen's moist face turning numbly to stare at Arthur's hand on his shirt, his expression uncomprehending – but he doesn't shrug the hand away.

And so wondering what the heck he's doing and why he's being so persistent in this, Arthur tries again.

"Kid, are you okay?" he asks softer, slower, trying to meet the haunted eyes of the boy. "Do you need something? Maybe a ride somewhere?"

Finally, the kid looks at him, and his blue eyes are wells filled with so much agony Arthur almost flinches back. He doesn't answer right away, silence stretching between them as though the boy, returning from whatever painful and isolated place his head had trapped him in, has to remember how words work once more.

"I…there's no…" he tries, voice barely a breath of air. "I have nowhere to go…"

One sentence, not even as loud as a whisper, but Arthur can hear in it dreams and hopes and a whole life washing away. And then Arthur looks at this boy – really looks at him – sees his thread-bare clothes, the hospital bag of belongings and mortuary brochure crumpled in a trembling fist, the backpack that's not holding much, the quiet but steady stream of tears and desperately blocked sobs, the pale face, listless hair, and dark smudges beneath his eyes…and he just knows this kid has hit rock bottom. There's just something about this boy sitting there – one stationary and overlooked human in the middle of a flurry of urgent activity – his entire being screaming desperation and abandonment and… _alone…_ And maybe that's why he really stopped – the real reason, the clincher – because even though it's been five years since Lance died and the pain of his other best friend's leaving is not nearly as sharp now, he's been there, felt deep grief. He sees the boy that everyone else's eyes seem to just slide right past, because he sees something of himself from years ago reflected in those broken eyes.

Besides, even avoids-feelings-like-the-plague-Arthur knows no one should be suffering alone on Christmas Eve, especially when they look like that.

Arthur sighs. "What's your name?" he asks quietly, half wondering if the boy is young enough he should be calling Child Protective Services to collect him.

Again, it takes the kid what seems ages to answer, his mouth working on a dozen aborted attempts before a whispered word crawls out.

"Merlin."

The idea comes to Arthur in a split-second and he tries to shove it right away but he finds he can't… It's Christmas Eve and…well…he doesn't have any plans – Morgana and Gwaine will be with their new baby, Gwen and Elyan are in France visiting their grandparents, Percival has to work (he drew the short straw at the police station, snagging the Christmas Eve patrol,) and Leon has his little family to celebrate with. He'd thought about going out, hitting a show or a nice restaurant, but now here's this boy, shattering before his eyes, bringing with him the haunted memory of Lance and shouting and strong hands pushing him hard, a horn blaring and an awful thud…

"I'm Arthur. And, well, my couch is free," he hears himself say quickly, as if in an attempt to stop the direction his thoughts are spiraling in, "if you need somewhere to crash."

Once more the boy's mouth opens and closes several times (Arthur does _not_ mentally compare him to an overgrown guppy) as the silence stretches painfully thin again, and he's sure the kid will refuse – actually a little relieved – but when he does finally find his tongue all that comes out is another question.

"Can I bring my books?"

00000

Trepidation flashes across the boy's face for an instant when they reach Arthur's car and he wonders if the kid is reconsidering, but then it's gone.

"Front seat is fine," Arthur tells him when Merlin automatically reaches for the handle of the back door.

He doesn't answer, just changes directions and slides hesitantly into the passenger seat next to Arthur, who graciously pretends not to notice as the kid wipes at the remaining moisture on his face with a frayed sweatshirt cuff.

The drive is mostly silent except for the few quiet instructions Merlin gives, body tense and emotions barely contained, his few belongings held tightly in his lap with desperate hands.

Arthur raises an eyebrow when the directions land them in a cold, snowy backlot full of lonely looking storage units, but he holds his tongue and climbs out of the car with what he supposes has become his Christmas Eve project. Merlin pulls a key from around his neck and steps up to a unit two from the end, opening the lock.

The door rolls up and the kid walks without fear into the yawning black of the cave-like interior, but Arthur – suddenly having niggles of worry and second thoughts flash through his brain – waits for his eyes to adjust.

When they do, something in his gut clenches in a way that's new for him – because the space is totally empty save for a small, wooden crate in the back corner that Merlin is just picking up, filled with old books. No furniture, no boxes of belongings, no signs of home and care and waiting family. Just one crate of books.

 _Empty._

 _Alone._

 _Nowhere to go._

The words twist inside his mind, and it's them coupled with the sight of that frozen, barren storage unit that finally drives home what he's stumbled into with crystal clarity – that this boy is caught up in some unfathomable personal tragedy, his whole world crashing and slipping away, but without a soul to notice it happening. There's a story here, of horrendous loss, but it's a silent one, playing out while the rest of humanity decks the halls and rings the bells.

And Arthur, who hadn't been looking for a project, a charity case, a new person in his life, can't seem to shake the feeling as he watches Merlin carry his precious books out of the shed that for some reason he's meant to help this lost kid.

The boy pauses at the entrance, shuffling the crate to a hip so he has a free hand then reaching out and looping the string with the dangling key onto a nail just inside the door.

"The um…payment runs out in three days," he says softly in response to Arthur's raised eyebrow.

 _And I don't have the money to pay again_ , Arthur hears the unspoken rest of that sentence in the downcast eyes and hunched shoulders of the young man.

"Put the crate in the car," he says more gently than he normally would, then Arthur closes the unit's door himself, puts the lock back in place, and slides once more into the driver's seat, Merlin next to him holding onto both his bags and his box of books as if to a life-preserver in a turbulent sea.

Arthur sighs and fights the urge to run a hand through his hair. This is not the way he'd planned to spend his holiday evening, and he's so out of his element it isn't even funny, but he's in too deep to turn back now.

"Do you like Chinese?" he finally asks as he puts the car in gear and pulls away, leaving the brooding, silent lot behind in his rearview window.

For the first time since the hospital, Merlin meets his eyes and Arthur sees a flash of something almost like hope struggle to the surface as he hesitantly nods.

"Good. Me, too," Arthur answers. "Looks like it's a takeout feast this Christmas Eve."

00000

Red and white cardboard cartons litter Arthur's table and counter – all empty – every last noodle or grain of rice having disappeared, mostly down the throat of the teenage beanpole currently using Arthur's shower.

He shakes his head, remembering the awkward meal.

The boy hadn't pounced, hadn't shoved the food into his mouth like a starving man. In fact he'd eaten quietly and hesitantly, just like he'd done everything else since Arthur had first spoken to him – but Arthur could still see it there, in his eyes – the hunger, the need, the desperate longing that spoke of too many days with too few meals. So he'd slid the containers over one by one, mixed here and there in his stilted attempts at conversation, claiming to be full, to have no desire for leftovers…

Merlin ate it all – slow and steady, a quiet thank you falling from his lips after each new item was pushed his way. But he didn't look up. And he didn't give anything away. Arthur knows nothing more about his unexpected Christmas guest than he did when he approached him in the hospital.

Not for the first time he wonders what the heck he's doing, and if he even should, and is he helping or enabling or hurting?

But it's Christmas Eve and he isn't sending a kid that barely looks old enough to drive out to sleep in the streets, so he tosses the empty containers and makes his way to the hall closet, pulling out extra blankets and pillows. He can deal with digging for answers in the morning.

The couch is bathed in the glow from his Christmas tree – Gwen had insisted he put one up, telling him he needed more festive spirit in his life – as he piles the bedding on one end. He spares a glance at the presents stacked beneath the tree, waiting to be opened in the morning – packages from Gwen, Morgana, his friends and even something that had surprisingly come in the mail from his father.

 _No presents for Merlin_ he thinks distractedly, and somehow he wishes he could fix that, even though he had no way of knowing he'd have a stray staying at his apartment this night.

Done with his chore, his eyes land on the box of books he'd barely managed to get Merlin to set aside long enough to eat and clean up. It's placed right next to the couch – Arthur honestly wouldn't be surprised if the kid sleeps with it.

 _Books._

 _Words._

 _Treasures._

No, more like _memories_ Arthur corrects himself – books connected to people and events – more precious than money or gems, at least to the boy who has carted them up three flights of stairs to place them carefully on Arthur's floor.

Curious, Arthur steps over, perusing the spines.

It's an eclectic mix. Beowulf next to Shakespeare, Darwin tucked down beside a history of world religions. Dinosaurs and Isaac Asimov and Charles Dickens.

A worn-to-the-point-the-binding-is-breaking copy of fairy tales catches Arthur's eye, and he pulls it carefully from the box, sitting on the edge of the couch to leaf through it. An inscription is just inside the front cover, written in a shaky cursive.

 _For my boy. Welcome home._

"That's the first book that was ever mine."

Arthur glances up to find Merlin looking at him from the hall entry, wet hair tousled every-which-way, backpack slung over one shoulder, his face pale in the Christmas light.

"Which story is your favorite?" It's not the question he means to ask, but it slips out anyway as he turns through the book, stopping here and there at a full-page, color illustration. Something about the book and the words and the pictures is tugging at the part of him that loves the smell of leather and old paper, the feel of rough pages beneath his fingers, the freedom of words that can carry you away from your troubles. The part of himself that he usually tries to hide for the sake of his manly reputation.

The couch dips next to him and Merlin reaches over, flipping deftly through the pages. "That one," he says softly.

 _The Ugly Duckling_.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at his strange guest, demanding more.

"It's about…the fact that it's okay to be who you are. And finding where you belong…" There's a catch in his voice that the boy tries desperately to hide.

"And did you?" Arthur asks. "Find where you belong?"

Wordlessly, Merlin nods, his eyes full once more as he takes the book from Arthur's hands and cradles it in his own, fingers tracing the wobbly inscription.

00000

The rest of the evening is silent and solemn and awkward – not at all how Arthur imagined his Christmas Eve being spent. Merlin hardly speaks, huddled on one end of Arthur's couch with his knees pulled up to his chin, book of fairy tales held protectively between his chest and his legs, arms wrapped tightly around them. He stares into the glimmer of the Christmas tree and only answers when asked a direct question, in as few words as possible.

Eventually, Arthur tells him to get some sleep and escapes to the refuge of his own room, unable to bear the extreme grief rolling off the boy in mute waves.

But it's nine at night on a holiday and his body isn't anywhere near tired yet, so he wiles away the hours with a book he's been meaning to read, though he finds himself scanning paragraphs over and over as his thoughts drift to the strange boy camping out on his couch. Finally, when he realizes he's been staring at the same page for almost an hour and doesn't remember any of it, he gives up, closing the book with a sigh.

 _A drink._

 _Of ice water_.

That's all he needs. All he's going out to get. All he's doing, as he slips from his room and walks toward the open living area of his apartment.

He is most certainly _not_ going to check on the gangly kid sleeping on his sofa.

Except said kid is not sleeping. He's sobbing – horrendous, muffled sobs that shake his whole skinny frame – a frame that is curled impossibly tight on Arthur's couch, desperately clinging to the old book of fairy tales and what looks like a worn out, stuffed grey…something.

Arthur freezes.

He has no idea what to do. Does he turn around and walk away, pretend not to have seen such a raw, personal moment? Does he speak from where he's at, try to offer comfort without intruding? This boy is a stranger – he doesn't even know his last name – proper society dictates that he keep his distance and not touch.

But suddenly, without conscious direction, he finds himself moving toward the couch, sitting down beside the trembling form, hesitantly gripping a thin shoulder.

And with that move, with that unconscious contact in the safety of the night and the glow of the lights that herald the season of peace and goodwill, it's as if some barrier has been broken. Without warning, the kid turns toward him, burying his whole upper body in Arthur's chest and sobbing fit to fall apart, clinging on as if starved for some form of kind human comfort. Startled, Arthur reacts on instinct, his arms circling to hold the boy against him because he has no idea how else to respond.

It feels like hours pass – though he can't see the clock from this angle – before the trembling and the sobs subside slightly. Their absence, however, makes the silence of the room that much more oppressive, and Arthur finds his mouth opening to fill it, again without real thought.

"My best friend died, when I was seventeen. We were messing around, being stupid. I didn't see the truck and…Lance pushed me out of the way. He died, right in front of me."

The words spill from his lips, shocking him slightly – he never talks about Lance, not even with Gwaine and Morgana. It happened, and it broke him for a while, but then he put it in a box in his mind and locked it away.

There's a few large sniffs and some movement from the teenaged lump against his chest, and then Merlin disentangles himself, sitting up and pulling away as he rubs self-consciously at his face with one ratty sleeve, his other arm still clutching the book and what Arthur can now see is a stuffed dragon that has certainly seen better days. His face is flushed from his crying and with embarrassment and the kid huddles back into the corner of the couch, folding into himself.

"Gaius…Gaius died today," he finally whispers, his voice cracking on the name.

"And who is – was Gaius?" Arthur probes quietly, feeling he is on more solid ground now he's no longer being used as a human comfort blanket.

"No one wanted me," Merlin mumbles. "I'm different. But Gaius…he still did. He loved me." The words wobble once more and he scrubs at his face again. "They tried to tell him he was too old, but he didn't listen. He still adopted me."

Arthur nods, the cryptic words finally starting to form a fuzzy backstory in his mind to go with the kid sitting next to him.

"How old are you, Merlin?" he asks.

"Eighteen."

Legally an adult, but still just a kid, broken and alone.

"And who's been taking care of you?"

The ringing silence is all the answer Arthur needs.

00000

Arthur sleeps longer than he planned on Christmas morning but he had a late night, sitting quietly on the couch keeping a shattered boy company.

Merlin didn't say more – about his past, about what had happened, about how he ended up without anywhere to go once his guardian had passed. He wasn't ready to speak, but Arthur couldn't in good conscious leave him alone with his tortured grief. It would have been a long, awkward, silent night if Arthur hadn't hit on an unexpected inspiration – Merlin's books. He asked about them, and it opened a conversation path that was safe. He supposes they bonded, of sorts, over books, and when he finally excused himself back to his bedroom to sleep, his young guest was slightly less pale and fragile.

Even after, he lay awake for a long while, pondering. He didn't know exactly what to do, but he did know something was pushing him to help this kid, and he was in too far to keep pretending he wasn't feeling it. Maybe it was the memory of Lance's ultimate sacrifice, driving him to somehow pay it forward in some small way. Whatever it was, he'd finally fallen asleep with the understanding that he wouldn't be asking the boy to leave in the morning, or anytime soon for that matter.

So, as he pads sleepily out Christmas day, his mind is not on presents under the tree but on the teenager who is hopefully still zonked out in his living room getting some much need rest, and on the conversation they now need to have.

But his couch is empty – blankets folded neatly, pillow laid on top – and he stops short. The crate of books is still on the floor – though it appears a little less full – but there's no sign of Merlin or his backpack. A folded piece of paper sits on top of a few stacked bills and some change on the coffee table and Arthur snatches it up.

 _Thank you for the ride and the food and the warm, safe place to stay. Thank you for talking and listening and reminding me that people can be good. Mostly, thank you for being kind._

 _I can't pay you back, not what you deserve, but I've left what I have, plus the books. I can tell from last night that you like them and will care for them, and they're all I have to say thank you with._

 _Merry Christmas and thanks again._

 _Merlin_

Arthur is shocked. In a daze, he glances at the crate. The book of fairy tales is missing, along with one or two others, but all the rest are still there. Then his eyes slide to the small pile of cash, counting without thought: twelve dollars and sixty-seven cents.

 _Twelve whole dollars, some coins, and a box of beloved books_ – all the money and possessions (because that ratty, stuffed dragon can hardly count!) that a grieving, young boy has in the whole world, left behind to pay for one night of kindness that didn't even ruin Arthur's plans.

And suddenly Arthur's moving – jamming his feet into shoes and pulling a coat over the sweats he slept in as he searches for his wallet. He grabs his keys and locks the door, determination burning strong in his eyes as he makes his way out into the snowy Christmas morning.

 **Author's Note:** I'm very sorry for the long wait. My muse decided to take an extended holiday break. Trying to keep her around better, but no promises. Anyway, one more chapter to go and this one is finished. Thanks so much for any feedback.


	3. Comes the New Day

**3\. Comes the New Day**

Arthur searches everywhere. Up and down snowy streets, in back alleys and not so back alleys, trudging through cold, deserted blocks and parks. He returns to the empty storage unit though he knows the kid won't be there, and its silent and still just like he thought.

The city around him is quiet and empty, blanketed in a soft foot of fresh snow and abandoned in a way that only happens once a year as everyone gathers with their friends and families to celebrate.

He thinks, for just a moment, he catches a glimpse of the boy's dark hair and hunched frame on an isolated park bench, but by the time he's managed to park the car and raced through the deep snow of the grounds, it's empty.

Maybe he never actually saw anything to begin with.

Around noon, soggy and wet and shivering, he starts poking his head into various shelters, but he never sees Merlin.

Disappointed and worried, though he's still a little shocked by the second feeling, he drags himself home.

His apartment is cold and dark when he enters, and part of his brain is wondering if he imagined the whole strange, previous night, but the stack of folded bedding on his couch along with the pitiful pile of cash and crate of precious books is undeniable proof. Somewhere out in the frozen city there is a shattered, grieving young boy who literally has nothing and no one and nowhere to go – but is apparently very good at not being found.

Arthur flips on the lights and the heat before he throws his keys on the table and shucks his soaked shoes and coat onto the floor. His sweats are wet to his knees and leave damp trails across the linoleum as he heads for the bathroom.

He showers – the water scalding hot as he tris to warm up his numb limbs – shaves and dresses, then downs some tea and a sandwich.

And then he sits there, staring at his Christmas tree and unopened presents, at a loss.

The overwhelming feeling that he's meant to help this kid, that he noticed him for a reason and that he can't let this boy slip away and be lost is not dissipating. In fact, it's growing stronger as the holiday passes around him. He needs to find Merlin, but he doesn't know how.

He remains there for a long time, pondering his problem. How on earth is he supposed to find one scrawny, eighteen-year-old who has apparently disappeared into thin air? All he knows is that the boy has nothing, is probably cold and hungry and all alone and - Arthur's gaze wanders his living area, landing on the box of books – _burying his adopted father and last family member in two days!_

With a cry of success, Arthur springs for the box of books.

00000

Merlin spends Christmas day walking, thinking, _grieving_. The snow doesn't stop falling and he's soon covered in it, soaked to the bone and freezing, but it's Christmas day and nothing is open but a few shelters, so he just keeps moving. He visits all of Gaius's favorite spots, his heart trying to come to terms with the fact the old man is gone, and his silent tears become his own, personal eulogy.

When it's dark, he creeps into a shelter that doesn't ask too many questions and curls up on a cot, re-reading his book of fairy tales for the ten-thousandth time.

00000

The morning of the burial – two days after Christmas – Merlin cleans up the best he can, then goes to the city's smaller cemetery. It's time to say his final goodbye.

It hasn't quit snowing since Christmas Eve and the place is empty and still except for the chaplain from the mortuary and the guys who run the back-hoe, sitting a discrete distance away as they try to stay warm and dry.

And one other person – a young man wearing a long, dark overcoat with blond hair plastered to his head from the heavy snow. He waits a few plots over, as if he's not sure he should be there, and when he turns, Merlin gasps.

"Arthur?" he blurts out, the name of the man who showed him such kindness after Gaius's death coming easily to his mind because he hasn't stopped thinking about the unexpected event since.

"Merlin," the other says, stepping through the snow to stand beside him.

"What are you…why are you here?" he babbles, flabbergasted and shocked and unable to get his normally on-the-ball brain to process what is happening.

"No one should have to bury their father all alone," Arthur says simply, hands stuffed deep in his pockets as he shrugs gently.

And Merlin feels the tears crest his eyes once more – because Arthur, this man he'd only met once for a few hours, knows that Gaius is his father, even if he never called him that. Because someone is there for him, on this difficult day, to stand beside him. Because, for just a few more hours, he doesn't have to be alone.

The chaplain approaches and shakes his hand, offers the usual sympathies. He says a few nice words about life and heaven and family, then tells Merlin to take all the time he needs and backs off.

For a long while, Merlin just stands there, hand on the casket and head bowed, not sure what to do or say. He'd said his goodbyes in the hospital room, made his peace as he roamed Christmas day. His heart is still broken and raw, but this isn't his first journey through grief, and he knows that what lies in that cold, metal box is not the old man he loves.

Finally, he just raises his head and whispers "thank you" to the falling snow, then steps away.

Arthur is still there when he turns, giving him space but showing no signs of leaving. Merlin walks to him, feet shuffling awkwardly.

"You didn't have to come," he mumbles, though he's so very grateful that the other man did.

"I know," Arthur answers quietly.

"How…how did you find me?" the boy asks next, puzzled.

"The books were labeled and Gaius isn't the most common of names," Arthur replies with a small smile. "There are only five mortuaries and two cemeteries in this town, so I made a few phone calls and then just waited." He shrugs again. "Besides, someone left a box of very precious belongings sitting on my living room floor and I needed to make sure they were returned to him."

"But I left those to pay you…for the food and the room!" Merlin protests even as his heart soars a little at the thought of them – _his books!_ – of seeing them, holding them again, turning their pages full of knowledge and memories and love one more time.

"Merlin, one night of Christmas kindness does not require payment, especially not a payment so steep and so dear," Arthur says gently. "Now come on and get in the car. My feet are frozen to the point I'm not even sure they're still there."

"Get in the car…?" the lonely boy trails off, his brain once more refusing to follow the conversation and what it might actually mean.

"Yes, the car," the other man stresses, pointing to the vehicle almost buried in snow that Merlin had missed on his walk into the cemetery. "You know, an automobile. With a roof and four doors. Where the snow isn't falling and the heater can blast full strength…"

"But, why?" Merlin asks, shifting the bag that holds everything he owns up higher on his shoulder.

"So we can go home," Arthur declares, as if it makes perfect sense as he starts to trudge through the snow toward said car.

Merlin doesn't move, doesn't follow. Doesn't even really breath.

 _Home?_

He doesn't have a home. Not anymore. Not for the last four months, and especially not now that the one person who loved him is gone.

"I can walk," he finally says softly. "I…I don't really know where I'm gonna go yet, so it would…well…be hard to give you directions."

Arthur stops and turns back around. "Merlin, you're going back to my place, that's where you're going, and you're staying there for as long as you need."

While tears fill Merlin's eyes unbidden once more, his battered and ragged pride still struggles to raise its weary head. "I don't need charity," he mutters quietly.

"But how about a friend?" Arthur answers. "Seems like you might need one of those, though. And –" the other man hesitates for just a moment, but then shrugs as if throwing caution out the window – "the truth is, I might need one, too."

A friend?

 _A friend_?

Merlin stares at him, frozen in a way that has nothing to do with cold and snow.

"I've…I've never had a…a friend," he finally whispers, voice shaking. "I mean…none other than…than Gaius."

The blond man's slight impatience softens and he flicks the built-up snow off his head again before retracing his steps back to Merlin. With a smile, he holds out his gloved hand.

"Well then. Arthur Pendragon. Applying for position of first friend."

It takes him a long while of standing there stupidly in the snow, his sneakers soaking through and his brain tumbling as a new word enters it and rolls around and around, one that's not even big or intriguing, but somehow seems more important than all the rest he's ever learned – _friend, friend._

 _FRIEND!_

Suddenly, for the first time in ages, Merlin smiles.

"Merlin Emrys Doughtery," he replies shyly, shaking the offered hand. "And…and I accept."

"Thank goodness!" Arthur cries with a laugh. "Now, can we please get in the blasted car?"

And Merlin laughs, something he wasn't sure he would ever feel like doing again.

 **Author's Note** :

There's no reason it should have taken me an entire year to write this chapter, but…well…it did. And I'm sorry.

Also, I lied to you. This isn't the last chapter, there's one more. BUT, don't panic. For the first time in my life, it's already written and done and will be posted on Christmas Eve, finally bringing this little story to a close.

Special thanks to M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng and Gingeraffealene for putting early eyes on this for me.


	4. The World Revolved

**4\. The World Revolved**

Arthur drove them back to his apartment, where he ordered Merlin into a hot shower, then stuffed the clean and finally warm boy full of pizza before depositing him, wrapped in blankets, back on his couch. The crate of books was waiting for him and Merlin greeted them like old friends.

The younger boy was still withdrawn, still wary and unsure, still obviously hurt and grieving, but he was no longer desperately trying to hide. Bit by bit, page by page, he opened up, sharing his past and how an old man's love had saved him.

It took a while but over the next week Arthur learned a lot. He learned about a boy no one had wanted who had filled his head with facts and books to hide how lonely he was. He learned how the kindness of an equally-lonely old man had saved that boy. He learned how, when tragedy struck once more, that boy had given up literally everything to care for his old friend.

It wasn't any easier for Arthur to share, but he believed in fair play, so Merlin learned a lot as well. He learned about a boy who grew up with anything and everything he could ever want, except a parents' love, which was almost worse because his father wasn't even dead. He heard about a young man who had dreams and hopes that didn't exactly mesh with the future his father had planned for him, how Arthur was almost twenty-four but was just getting close to finishing school because it had taken him that long to stand up for his own desires. He learned about the three awkward and horrible years that had passed when father and son had barely spoken to each other.

And with all that sharing going back and forth, both young men had a startling realization – it was almost as if they needed each other. Merlin needed a home and someone to be there for him, but Arthur – even surrounded by his sister and his friends – was just as much alone. Since Lance, he'd purposefully kept everyone a little at bay, holding them at arm's length, protecting his heart.

Merlin and Arthur fit – like gloves that had finally found their missing mate – as if they were perhaps different pictures that decorated opposite sides of the same coin.

00000

Merlin learned a new word in January, right before Arthur started his last semester of school: roommate.

Being a friend _and_ a roommate meant that Arthur willingly sold his queen-sized bed and settled for a twin, so they could cram two of them into the single bedroom of Arthur's apartment, because his new _friend_ and _roommate_ was adamant that Merlin couldn't spend his life sleeping on the couch, even if Merlin insisted that he'd done it before, when he was little and being passed around different houses.

Being a friend _and_ a roommate meant that the pictures Merlin had carried so carefully in his pack – of his mother, of Gaius's happy cottage, of himself and his adoptive father sitting on their bench in the park – found their way onto his side of the wall, framed along with his GED certificate – as if they, and _he_ , belonged.

Being a friend _and_ a roommate meant that half the closet was now his, even if the new clothes Arthur had bought him barely filled a corner of it.

It meant a key to the apartment stayed safely in his pocket.

It meant that Arthur rolled his eyes but never actually said anything when a grey lump of bedraggled fur that _used_ to resemble a stuffed dragon settled in to live on Merlin's bed, unashamed and in plain sight once more.

It meant, that for the first time in months, he had a _home_.

00000

Merlin got a job.

The library was hiring and if there was anything he was good at, it was words and books. He wanted to go to university, to learn more about them – study history and languages and words like Gaius had, but universities were expensive.

Arthur offered to help pay for it because apparently, Arthur was rich – or at least his father was – but Merlin wouldn't let him. Some things in life a young man needed to work out for himself.

So they struck a deal: Arthur would pay for the rent and the food – he argued that he'd already been doing it before Merlin came, there was no point in changing it now – and Merlin would save his hard earned money for school.

It worked out nicely.

And if Arthur planned to help slip in a special, secret "scholarship" when the time came, well…Merlin didn't need to know that.

00000

Gwen returned from her visit to France and promptly fell in love with Merlin, fussing over him like a mother hen. Arthur would have been jealous, except he saw the way the boy soaked in her hugs and attention like a dry sponge, like he needed that affection more than air and food. _Like a kid who hadn't been mothered since his own had died when he was eight…_

And so he just grinned when Merlin marveled over the word _sister_ like it was his new favorite thing.

Except it didn't stop there. Morgana wasn't about to let Gwen outdo her in the mothering department and Arthur swore his baby nephew Drew smiled for Merlin before he ever did for him. Then Arthur's own friends – Gwaine and Percival and even Leon – jumped on the Merlin bandwagon and before he knew it, the kid had more adopted sisters and nephews and big brothers than he knew what to do with. It overwhelmed Merlin at times, and when Arthur noticed he'd discreetly shoo the company home or make excuses so the two of them could leave, but he also knew that Merlin needed it. The boy had been starved for love and affection for much too long.

00000

So Merlin worked and Arthur struggled through his last semester of school. And, on late nights when he was ready to beat his head into the table because the paper was due the next morning and he just couldn't get the words to come out right, he learned that Merlin was really very, very smart and clever.

Arthur graduated in the spring, Merlin laughing that he never would have made it without his help. Secretly, Arthur almost agreed, though he would never admit that out loud. Everyone came for the celebratory dinner, even his father, and when Gwen suggested that they could have another dinner sometime, just the two of them, Merlin blurted out that she might as well do the proposing since Arthur was never going to get around to it.

Arthur took him down in a headlock later that night when they were back in their apartment…but then asked the kid if he would consent to helping pick out a ring.

00000

The wedding was small and simple, just family and dear friends. Everyone laughed and smiled – except Merlin. He tried, but the fake turn of his lips never quite reached his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Arthur demanded, he and Gwen cornering the boy before the dancing and cutting of the cake. "You practically shoved us down the aisle, so now that we're here, why are you acting like it's a funeral?"

"I'm not!" Merlin protested, though it felt weak even to his ears as he sat slumped at a table, arms crossed dejectedly.

"Your glower is strong enough you even scared Percival away, Merlin…" Gwen put in gently, scooting a chair next to him and laying an arm on his hand.

"Out with it," Arthur ordered, sitting on the edge of the table.

But Merlin didn't want to, didn't want to tell his friend the thoughts spinning around in his mind. There was a reason he'd retreated to the corner, placed himself out of the way on purpose, so as not to rain on the happy couples' wedding day. He'd been down this path before, he knew the road well, and while his world might be crashing down once more, he wasn't about to add to the casualty list.

So he squirmed and hedged, tried to distract them or just escape, but they were firm and they had him cornered. "Idonthaveahomeagain…" he finally mumbled, refusing to look up from the toes of his dress shoes.

"What?" Arthur asked, face scrunched up in confusion.

Merlin sighed. "Now that you're married, and moving and…I don't have a home again," he said, sinking lower into his seat.

Gwen promptly smacked Arthur on the shoulder, rather hard.

"OW!" he yelped, causing Merlin to look up - that was not the response he'd expected.

"You didn't tell him, did you!" she said, glaring at her new husband.

"I was a little busy!" he cried, stepping farther away when she threatened to hit him again. "I forgot!"

"Tell me what?" Merlin asked, very puzzled.

"About the new apartment. The new _three_ -bedroom apartment, with a room just for you," Gwen told him, smiling happily even as she rolled her eyes at Arthur.

Merlin's jaw dropped.

"But…but…you're married!" he finally cried. "You mean…you still want me to stay?"

"Of course we do," Gwen said, smiling and looking resplendent in her white gown and veil.

Merlin looked toward Arthur, toward this man who had reached out and saved him when he was crashing down into nothing, even though he didn't have to. To this man who opened his home to a stranger, but more importantly, had opened his heart. To the man who was his best friend.

"I'm the one who owns the bookshelves," Arthur said, his eyes twinkling as he shrugged and smiled. "So, if you want somewhere to put all those books you've collected, I guess you're gonna have to come along…"

Merlin tackled him in a hug.

00000

"SURPRISE!"

The blast of noise and sudden shock of lights turning on that hit Merlin as he walked in the door from work on a cold, November evening made him drop his key in surprise. He looked up and around to find that everyone was there, staring at him.

"What…what is this?" he stuttered, still stunned in the entryway.

"It's called a birthday, idiot," Arthur said, stepping forward and slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Most people know what that is by the time they turn nineteen…"

Merlin's eyes widened. "But, how did you – all of you – know?" he whispered.

He hadn't told anyone, acknowledging his turning a year older with a quiet, normal day spent at the library. He'd never had a birthday party – just a treat and maybe one special gift when he lived with Gaius or his mother, and no acknowledgment whatsoever when he hadn't – so it had never crossed his mind to mention the event or expect anything.

Arthur laughed. "I have connections," he said vaguely.

"Good, now that's out of the way," Gwaine said happily, handing baby Drew off to Morgana and grabbing Merlin's arm to tug him forward into the apartment, "let's get to the presents. Always the best part, I say."

"I don't know," Percival added as the group followed, settling on chairs, table corners and the floor in a rough circle around Merlin and a good-sized stack of presents he'd just noticed. "Cake's pretty good, too."

"Amen, brother," Elyan echoed enthusiastically.

Gwen stuck a brightly wrapped present into Merlin's hands. "Open it," she urged gently.

Merlin hesitated for only a moment before ripping the paper off with unexpected glee.

Then he froze.

There, in his hands, was a small painting. But not just any painting – one of _Gaius's_ paintings…one that he'd sold.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, for ages and ages and ages, as he gripped the frame with white-knuckled fingers and felt his eyes well up.

Finally, he looked up, finding Arthur and piercing him with a wordless questioning gaze.

" _Connections_ ," his friend repeated quietly, his own smile pleased and soft. "Now, open the next one!"

And so it went on like that, Merlin opening a present from each of his new friends only to find something from his old life with Gaius that he'd been forced to part with. They weren't large items – just books and knick-knacks, a carved wooden box and an old quilt – but they were _Gaius's_ and _his_ , from his memories and past, and their meaning was now doubled, knowing his friends had spent the time and money to track them down.

After everything was unwrapped and lying around him, Merlin just sat there, emotions having pushed him beyond all words. Thankfully, Morgana jumped to her feet before the silence could get awkward – suggesting cake – and everyone filed into the kitchen, giving the boy a chance to compose himself.

Later that night, Arthur stopped by his room as Merlin was arranging his "new" things.

"Arthur…how did you…just…?" He gave up on words, just looking in disbelief at his older friend.

"Remember when you told me how you'd sold everything, to pay for what Gaius needed?" Arthur asked, stepping inside the room and leaning his hip against the wall.

Merlin nodded. That was not something he would easily forget, nor something he would ever regret.

"Well, after a while, I went poking around," his friend continued. "Turns out you made a bit of an impression on the antiques dealer. He certainly remembered you when I asked, and he was easily able to show me some of the things you'd brought in that hadn't sold yet. Then, when Morgana and Gwen got the big idea to plan this crazy party and people started asking for birthday ideas, I just nudged them in the right direction. Everyone liked it so much, it just ended up being a sort of theme."

Merlin looked at the painting he'd just finished hanging in a place of honor, right over his bed. It was small – not nearly the most impressive of the pictures Gaius had once owned that he'd had to sell – but he couldn't even express what it now meant to him. The items were precious, filled with memories, but the fact his new friends had found them for him meant more than the things themselves ever could.

"So, birthday party success?" Arthur asked.

"Completely," Merlin answered with a contented smile.

"Good, 'cause Morgana would have had my head if you answered _no_. Now, there's leftover cake and soccer on TV and no women in the house so…"

Merlin grinned and then playfully shoved his friend out of the way, racing to reach the cake first.

00000

It's snowing again on Christmas Eve. Merlin stands before Gaius's headstone, a wreath of holly and evergreens clutched in his hands.

"Hi, Gaius," he says with a loving smile. "I know I was just here a few weeks ago, but…it's Christmas and… Well, you know I would never miss visiting today."

He bends forward and carefully leans the wreath against the stone that bears his father's name, brushing the snow gently away from the words. Then he stays there, crouching with his gloved hands resting on the marker.

"Did you know they think they've found a new dinosaur? One never discovered before! I read it in a book, just yesterday."

He pauses, a small tear leaking from the corner of one eye and his words are rather shaky as he continues.

"I miss you every day, Gaius, and I wish with all my heart I could talk with you again – that we could read another book together or go feed the ducks." He wipes at the tears that are falling freely, managing a smile once again. "But, I'm trying to be good, just like you asked, and I'm okay. I'm gonna be okay. Do you know why?"

The boy glances back over his shoulder, to the small crowd of people who are standing a respectful distance away, offering both privacy and support which warms his heart.

"Do you see them, Gaius?" he whispers, beaming. "All of them, right there, waiting for me? Just for me? I wanted you to see them, so you'd know I'll be all right."

Words dance and spin in his head once more, happy and beautiful and filled with peace, such a contrast from the feverish jabs of the words in his past.

 _Friends._

 _Uncle._

 _Brothers._

 _Sisters._

 _Arthur._

They coalesce into two main words, shiny and bright, that settle in his heart like missing pieces that have finally returned –

 _Family_ and _home._

Just…just home.

00000

 _Till, ringing, singing, on its way,  
_ _The world revolved from night to day,  
_ _A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,  
_ _Of peace on earth, good will to men!_

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


End file.
